


A Parasite's Pity

by Lokei



Category: Hornblower (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-23
Updated: 2006-07-23
Packaged: 2017-10-20 06:44:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/209868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lokei/pseuds/Lokei
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A pawnbroker reflects on a valuable customer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Parasite's Pity

To the rich, he was a penance, to be borne in silence as a result of some trifling but expensive indiscretion. To the merchant class, he was a parasite, an affront to honest hard workers like themselves, living off the misfortunes of others. But to the poor—ah, the poor—he was a prayer answered. Not the truly destitute, for they had nothing of value to him, but the suddenly or genteelly poor, they were his favorites.

He could spot them from at least a block away. They always tried to look unconcerned, as if they were out for a stroll and merely happened to be in the neighborhood, not looking for Gavenny’s Specialty Goods at all. They always slowed when they approached his door, sneaking furtive looks to be sure they met with none of their acquaintance. Once through the door, having committed themselves to his hands, most were brusque, embarrassed, in a hurry to be gone. Most were forgettable, scarcely worth remembering save for their gratitude when he recalled the name which attended a pinched or graying face. After all, it was the goods they had to pawn which interested him most, and he could spare no emotion for the distresses which had brought them to his door.

A few, though, lingered in the mind, somehow indelibly linked to the meager belongings on his counters and his shelves. He could spare a pang for the aging spinster of fine but failing family, lips pursed against a new kind of pain as she handed over her father’s signet that she might have new gloves and a ribbon for the next Assembly, though the money might be better spent on a decent meal. He could even share bitter amusement with the sporting gent whose debtors trod a little too close on his heels—chance makes fools of us all, one day or another.

But never had he met with a single customer who could excite both pity and admiration, however noble or game he might be.

Never, that is, until this season.

The peace had been good to Gavenny, if ill fortune to the sudden flood of customers at his door, to whom war meant work and peace meant enforced idleness. There were more than one might expect—not merely the naval officers consigned to the indignity of half-pay, but shipwrights, munitions workers, common sailors—all those that formed the invisible sinews of the vast arm of the British fleets. In this new flock of indigents, there were a few fine faces, a character or two, all Lieutenant this or Lieutenant that. Gavenny suspected that it was nearly as bad with the Army, but there at least most officers had the family with money enough to buy a commission, and therefore money enough to support them in the peace. Naval Lieutenants seemed to mostly lack that option—and so they came to him, hat in hand, shoulders stiff, their pride worn as thin as their uniforms. They were all the same.

Save one.

Tall enough to duck reflexively as he entered Gavenny’s shop, filling the doorway with his angular shadow, he was a study in contradictions. Gavenny could not say what first caught his attention—perhaps it was the courteous tone, void of embarrassment and snivelling alike? More likely it was the gleam of rueful amusement in those deep eyes. No doubt the man was unsurprised that the greatcoat he passed over the counter would have been worth more if he’d sold it for rags. That he refused to do so somehow made this gangly officer all the more likeable, though it certainly surprised Gavenny to admit it.

And, a month later, when the same officer had returned to reluctantly hand over his sword, Gavenny found himself pierced by a feeling totally alien to one in his profession.

It was compassion—compassion for the officer’s gaunt cheeks, for his cold-chapped hands with their long capable fingers, for his quiet smile and hunched shoulders, hiding what any man might consider a mortal blow to his pride.

And it was this emotion which the officer provoked in Gavenny which rendered him indelibly on the pawnbroker’s memory, which called forth from him uncharacteristic gentleness as he had to deliver his price. And even that he upped by a shilling as he spoke, blinking momentarily at his own sudden urge to generosity.

As the officer bowed in acquiescence and resumed his stiff legged gait up the street, Gavenny watched him and reflected.

Yes, the pawnbroker would remember him, and for more than his name—though what poor sod on land or sea wanted to be saddled with a name like Hornblower?


End file.
